


Leaving Her

by reagancrew



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reagancrew/pseuds/reagancrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: I do not own Warehouse 13. </p>
<p>You cannot sleep. Not without her. You cannot stand to hurt her in this way, but you must. Just a quick little somewhat AU oneshot in which HG Wells wasn't sent away after "A New Hope." Instead, she was once more reinstated and has taken up residence in the B&B with the other agents. Bering and Wells. Let me know what y'all think!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving Her

You don’t sleep. You can’t sleep. It’s somewhat bothersome. Especially when it’s the middle of the night and the rest of the team are tucked into their beds and you’re left all alone to wander the halls of Leena’s old bed and breakfast and reflect on all that you’ve lost. It’s almost, at two in the morning when the cold has seeped its way into the floorboards and the moon is on her way down, it’s almost as though you’ve been bronzed all over again. Except now, now you can also think on all of the things you’ve gained.  


So many things. Back in the Warehouse, hunting for artifacts, friends. You’d almost forgotten what friends looked like. But, now, you think you might actually have some, several in fact. It’s quite wonderful. What Artie said after the whole Sykes debacle seems to have done the trick; the regents reinstated you...again. They didn’t send you back to the life of Emily Lake. They didn’t throw you in some ratty old dungeon and lose the key. And the amount of freedom is nearly electrifying.  


But you can’t sleep. And it’s because of her.  


You want to speak to her, to laugh with her, to discuss her favorite novelists. The two of you used to do those things. Now, though, now you can hardly meet her gaze. She knows it, she’s tried to talk to you about it, but so far you have managed to elude her grasp. You wish you could explain it to her, to make her understand that something happened that day. In the warehouse, in the battle against Sykes. With the bomb. It’s like a forgotten dream, hovering on the edge of your consciousness. If you could only reach out and grab it, you might be able to look her in the eyes once more. To tell her all that you’re feeling. To apologize over and over again for all of the things you have done wrong. To ask her to forgive you. To love you. As you do her.  


Sometimes, when she catches you looking at her, there’s something there, an expression which flits across her face too quickly to identify. Sometimes you think that emotion might be love, or forgiveness, or understanding. But it always turns to confusion and hurt and you’re forced to look away. It is heart wrenching.  


So you don’t sleep. You read instead. You study. And You pace, up and down these old halls. Searching for that half forgotten dream, an explanation, answers. You peak into her room on your way past each time, just to check, to make sure she’s safe, content, off in some world you will never visit. It always catches you off guard: how peaceful she looks as she sleeps, her brown curls thrown haphazardly across the pillow, one arm stretched across the empty side of the bed. Her face relaxed, the crinkle in her forehead that’s present while she’s awake and thinking hard is missing. She’s lovely. Stunning. You wonder what it would be like to slip into her bed, to kiss her cheek and pull her close beside you. You wonder if, perhaps, you might be able to sleep with her warmth next to you. But then you’re forced to move away, back to the silence and solitude of your late night rambles.  


You make tea at all hours of the early morning and you watch the sun rise from the back porch. But you always make sure to slip back into your room before she gets up, always the first one awake, so that she doesn’t know how troubled your nights have become. She would worry, you think. Or perhaps that is simply a hope, a wish, that she would care for you enough to worry. But either way, you don’t want her to know.  


Now that it’s half past four, you decide a nice early morning mug of tea is in order. And as you slip past her room, you turn the knob gently, and poke your head in. There she is, asleep, peaceful. You feel yourself smile at the sight of how utterly gorgeous she looks. You love her. And it is both wonderful and frightening. But mostly it makes you want to cry at the futility of it all. You close the door and you rest your head against it gently, wishing you could tell her, wishing you could go to her and wrap your arms around her waist and sway her to some silent music and know that that glow in her eyes is your doing.  


Instead, you go downstairs, and you make tea, heating the water in the microwave, although you wish for a traditional kettle and its soothing whistle. Then you go outside, even though it’s cold, and you settle yourself on the porch swing, tucking your bare feet beneath you, enjoying the bite of the dawn air, the slightly damp feeling of the wood of the seat. And you wait, patiently, for the morning, for another day of trying to pretend that you are not broken and that she is not breaking. Because of you.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Leena is humming at the stove, while Claudia has her head settled in her arms, trying vainly to get a few more minutes of sleep. “Coffee,” the older woman sing-songs, and the pink-haired girl groans.  


“Five more minutes,” she mumbles, but Leena merely laughs gaily, setting a steaming mug in front of the tired techie.  


You’re sitting at the table, too, the newspaper open in front of you, but you aren’t reading. You’re waiting for her to come downstairs, to grab the coffee that Leena has prepared for her (black), and to sit down across from you. You’ll hand over the front page silently and maybe today she’ll brush your wrist with her finger tips as the exchange is made, and maybe today she’ll open her mouth as if to ask, why? why is this happening to us?, but instead she’ll murmur, “Good morning,” and you’ll respond in kind and then you’ll both go back to pretending to ignore the other. It’s a morning dance you’ve perfected over the past month. It’s exhausting.  


When she appears in the doorway, you’re heart skips a beat and you’re sure that, for just one moment, the world is perfect. Because she is perfect. But today, when you hand over the paper, she doesn’t speak and she doesn’t make eye contact and your heart sinks down into your stomach because you realize that a month is too long to go without speaking. She is starting to try and move on. She is ignoring you because it’s easier. You should feel pleased. Finally. Finally it appears that she has gotten the message, but instead you feel achy as though you’re eighty years old and it’s about to rain. And you hurt. In places within you that you'd forgotten existed. You hurt.  


Leena and Myka are talking about something, but you can’t make out the words from the rushing in your ears. Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this why you’ve been pushing her away? So she’d finally go and be safe from you. Isn’t this what you’ve been praying for for the past four weeks? Yes. Maybe. No; you’ve been praying for her to love you.  


Pete is thundering down the stairs. You know it’s him because he is the only one who can sound like a herd of elephants all by himself. He has probably smelled the waffles that Leena is making from his room. He will be loud and hungry, and the equivalent of a small child. You mentally prepare yourself for his entrance.  


True to form, he skids into the kitchen, throwing himself into his seat and nearly claps his hands in delight when Leena sets down a steaming plate of griddled goodness. You hide a slight smile behind your mug of tea. “Morning!” he chirps to the room at large. Claudia groans. Leena returns his grin. Myka rolls her eyes at his enthusiasm.  


“Well, you look like hell.”  


Surprised, you realize that he is talking about you. To you. Things between you and the other agent have been better ever since you helped to protect his mother. But it can still get a bit strained, and you aren’t exactly ‘best buds.’ “I beg your pardon?” is all you manage.  


He gestures with a fork full of waffle and dripping in syrup. “You look like crap. Rough night?”  


It is true that you are not looking your best. Makeup can only get you so far, and the long nights have begun to take their toll. Your shirt is wrinkled and you are quite sure that you have been slouching in your chair. But, “I’m perfectly alright,” is your response. Pete is satisfied, but she is looking at you now, studying you. You blush and look away at the intensity of her gaze. Her dark eyes are piercing, intent.  


It’s the ringing of the Farnsworth that breaks up breakfast. You are thankful for the interruption. “Warehouse. Now.” Artie is brisk as usual. Claudia slinks towards the stairs to get dressed and wake Agent Jinks. Pete has scarfed down his entire plate and is already bounding back towards his room. “Coming?” he calls to Myka over his shoulder, but she waves him off as she stands slowly.  


You have tried to hurry after Pete, but she grabs your arm as you pass and pulls you into the living room. She is still examining you. You force yourself to straighten up, to put on the mask of cool and collected disinterest that has been your trademark for more than a century. Her lips part, and your eyes are immediately drawn there, to trace the outline of her mouth. You flick your gaze back up to her own immediately, afraid of having been caught staring. But she is looking at you worriedly. She didn’t notice.  


She wants to ask if you are alright. You can see the question hovering there. You can’t possibly lie to her. “We should get ready,” so you speak first, pulling your arm out of her grasp as you do so.  


“Of course,” it is a whispered question, one you do not answer.  


“About that file Artie gave us last night, I don’t think the artifact will be a problem to locate.” It’s work related, placed into the heaviness between you in order to distract her. It works.  


She shakes herself slightly, looking confused. “Fine. No, yes, that’s good. That’s excellent.”  


You wait, but she is simply looking at you, stealing your breath straight from your lungs. “Was there something else?” your tone is harsh and clipped. She shrinks back immediately, hurt. You feel your own body flinch at the blow. The anger you feel towards yourself makes you desire something to hit.  


“N-no,” she responds, but you are already turning away, abhorring your own actions yet unable to stop. This is for her own good. You don’t get ‘vibes;’ that’s Pete’s area of expertise, but what you felt in the Warehouse after diffusing the bomb, was barely short of a physical punch in the stomach. You will hurt her. You will leave her. You already have. You are not worthy of her, nowhere near good enough to call yourself hers, so this is best.  


“Good then.”  


“Helena,” it is a plea. Your name on her lips is something that freezes you in your tracks, unable to retreat. Your name has never sounded so wonderful as it does coming out of her mouth, has never sounded good before.  


You want to turn, to take her hands in yours. To promise never to let go. To tell her that you love the fact that she knows every word ever written by Shakespeare, that you love that spot beneath her ear, that you would gladly fill the empty space in her bed where her hand rests every night, that you. love. her. But, you pretend she hasn’t said anything. Instead, you harden your heart as you’re so good at doing, and you shatter her just a bit more. And even though you have already walked away, you can see the way her eyes will glisten for a moment, before she takes a deep breath and shakes the hair out of her eyes, and carries on. Stoic. Strong. Beautiful.  


And you are a monster. And all you want to do is sleep. With her. But you can’t. You mustn’t. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It is a week later, and once again you are awake while everyone else is fast asleep. Once again you are contemplating whether or not it might be better if you left the Warehouse, if you asked the regents to put you back inside the body of Emily Lake. Because if you left, you wouldn’t have to pretend like everything was perfectly fine. You would not have to be H.G. Wells. But that is running. You do not run. And you will not leave her, even if she thinks you are already gone.  


The others are passed out after a successful mission to South Africa. You’d all gone. Claudia and Steve, Pete and Myka, and you. And the artifact had been retrieved; snagged, bagged, and tagged. There had been one moment, one terrifying moment where Myka had been directly in the line of enemy fire, where the cursing nail had nearly punctured her skin. She had cried out, but you had been deposed by one of the several unpleasant thugs present at the scene, and so you’d only been able to watch, horrified, as the nail approached her chest, the place directly above her heart. She’d caught your eye in that moment, and you’d let go of a silent sob at the terror in her expression. But she caught your eye and she’d very nearly smiled, and you hadn’t understood. All you knew was that you would have moved heaven and earth in that moment to be able to get to her in time. But Pete had been there. He had managed to neutralize the threat, and you had heaved a giant sigh of relief when she’d slipped out of the way unscathed. You abhorred going on missions with her, because when events such as that occurred, it was impossibly difficult to school your features into one of mere friendly relief.  


The flight home had been tense and awkward, although Claudia and Pete were in celebratory moods. Even Jinks had seemed relaxed and pleased at the outcome. She, however, had seemed withdrawn, displaced from the events taking place around her. She wasn’t shaking off her encounter half as well as she usually did. And so you worried about her, from afar, and you expressed your concerns in a non-committal, uninterested way to Leena when you all returned. Thankful that the mothering woman had taken Myka a cup of tea after dinner, and certain that if anyone would be able to soothe the agent, it would be the owner of the B&B. Leena had looked concerned when she’d returned from Myka’s room, however. Preoccupied. And there had been no opportunity for you to question the other woman.  


So, it is now late at night, and you are alone with your thoughts, and all you can see is Myka’s face, turned towards you, a rictus of terror. And her eyes, shining with fear, until suddenly they were calm and you were floating on a sea of peacefulness and acceptance as she smiled at you. Why? Why had she so suddenly relaxed in that moment? And why had Leena looked so troubled that evening? You throw the covers back in discomfort and flick on your bedside lamp. There will be no sleeping for you tonight. Of course not.  


It’s then that you hear it. A sound, muffled, coming from the room down the hall. Her room. You’re out of bed faster than you believed and outside her door in what feels like the blink of an eye. But you hesitate with your hand on the knob. Instead, you press your ear to the wood and wait. Yes, there it is again, whimpering. She’s having nightmare. You recognize the sound immediately. She’s had them before. Everyone who works in the Warehouse has nightmares. It comes with the job. You’re sure that it was in the contract they made you sign.  


She’s getting louder. She’s crying in her sleep. You know it. And you want, more than anything, to go to her. To push into her room and wrap her tightly against you, push her hair back from her face, kiss her cheek. To soothe her as one might a child until she is calm and then to lull her back to sleep in your arms. It’s all you want to do, but you are wracked with indecision and trapped just outside, unable to move.  


Until you hear another door open and slam from down the hall. They’ve heard. And now they’ll come. Gritting your teeth, you take a deep breath before pushing through. As soon you as open the door and see her lying there, sheets wrapped round her legs, her face, not smooth and serene as it usually is, but hurting. As soon as you spot the tear tracks glistening down her pale cheeks, you are across the floor and clambering up onto the mattress and reaching out with one hand to ease her hurting. It is Leena who arrives first, rushing through the door in her nightgown and coming to stand by the side of the bed. But she doesn’t reach out, doesn’t make a sound. You make eye contact and she nods her head at you once, as if to say, Yes, go ahead.  


You place one hand against a flushed cheek and you say her name. “Myka.” And again. “Myka, wake up.” But it isn’t enough so you take her fully in your arms, resting her head against your chest, even as she struggles. You run your fingers through her tangled curls and you’re murmuring in her ear. “Wake up, Myka. Come on, darling. You can do it. It’s just a dream. Just a nightmare.” For a moment, you forget where you are, the memory of holding a small child in this exact position hitting you full force and causing you to forget to breathe. Your hand pauses and your eyes cloud over with the remembrance of a child so delicately beautiful and wonderful it makes your heart break once more.  


But then Pete rushes through the door, half naked, a baseball bat in hand and it’s so ridiculous, it manages to jolt you out of the past, back to reality. You are sitting on Myka’s bed. The year is 2012. She is having a nightmare. You are here. You are now. You are holding her. “Wake up, darling. It’s just a dream. Open your eyes. I’m right here. We’re here,” because you look up and see that behind Pete is Steve, tesla at the ready, and peering over his shoulder is Claudia. They are all there.  


She’s waking up now, pulling out of the hold of the dream slowly. You rub your hand soothingly along her arm in encouragement. This is the closest you’ve been to her in what feels like decades. When you were bronzed, each moment felt like a month, and each passing year a century, but when you are separated from her, aching for her soft skin against your own, each second passes as an eternity. This is your heaven.  


Her eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep and confusion and the fear is still there. She sees Leena first, her eyes are questioning. The motherly woman soothes her with a smile. “Just a dream,” she explains. And Myka nods as though she remembers.  


“Scared the bejeezus out of us, Mykes,” Pete quips from his position at the foot of the bed. She stares at him, as though looking through a fog. Her body is still tense against my own.  


“I-I’m fine,” she stutters. “Sorry, guys.”  


“Hey, no worries. I was totally ready,” he gestures towards the bat which elicits a shaky smile. You should let go now, back away before she realizes who is holding her so tightly, but you do not possess the strength of will.  


“Thanks,” she murmurs. Pete grins at her, but there is worry in his face. Claudia and Steve nod, before backing away.  


“Maybe I’ll make some tea,” Leena suggests.  


Myka shakes her head, “No. That’s alright. Thanks, Leena, but I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I woke you all.”  


“We’ve all been there,” the softer woman assures her, before heading back to her own room.  


Pete is still standing guard. “I’m fine, Pete,” she reassures him again, sounding awake now, but with a tinge of leftover fear still in her voice.  


“It was a tough case,” he argues.  


“It was only a dream,” she rebuts. “Besides, I’m pretty sure seeing you like...that,” she gestures at his half-naked body, “is the equivalent of any nightmare I might have had.”  


He pouts, but looks secretly pleased that she has insulted him. It means the edges of the dream are loosening their grip on her. “Fine,” he says. “You coming?” And these are the first words directed at you.  


You feel her shift beneath you and you automatically stiffen. “Of course,” you murmur in response, refusing to meet her curious gaze. It’s a struggle to loosen your grasp, to slide your hand along her back, to let her go. But you do. You’re about to stand, when she reaches out and grabs your wrist, gripping fiercely. You look down, surprised, shocked to find that she actually is holding onto you.  


Her voice is soft and grateful when she addresses Pete, giving no indication at the tightness of her grasp, “Thanks, partner.” He glows at the title. “But I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”  


He nods. “Holler if you need anything,” he says, before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.  


She tugs at you. You should resist, but you do not, sliding back into her bed beside her. She waits, staring at the sheets until you understand and slide your legs out, leaning back against the pillows, getting comfortable. She remains seated, cross legged, staring unseeingly at the sheets. She has not let go of your wrist.  


“You’ve been avoiding me,” she bites her lip. “Why?”  


You do not have an appropriate response. You should, because thoughts of her have consumed you for weeks now, but you have yet to formulate an answer to this question.  


“Helena.”  


“I-I,” you do not stammer, yet here you are, tripping over your words. Because of her. How did she gain this power over you? “What did you dream about?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it, and she flinches.  


“You haven’t been sleeping,” she responds instead. Unwilling to be swayed. “Tell me why,” and now she looks at you, her dark eyes searching your face.  


You shake your head, furious at the water welling in your eyes. You cannot. You must not.  


Her features soften when she realizes that you are trying not to cry. This makes you furious. “Tell me why you are awake to watch the sunrise every morning and why you won’t tell any of us what’s going on. Tell me why you don’t trust us-”  


“I do,” you manage.  


“Then talk to me,” she is nearly begging. “Explain it to me, Helena, because I cannot, for the life of me, understand what I did wrong.”  


“Nothing! You did nothing wrong,” you choke out, horrified that this is what she thinks.  


She looks away, mouth set in a thin line. It’s almost as though she’s battling with herself. She begins to speak, but stops. Begins again, “I was dreaming about Sykes,” she whispers. You lean forward, closer to her. “That we didn’t figure out the bomb. That it went off.”  


You are frozen in place as she continues, “It was terrifying. But you saved us,” she looks up at you and there are tears glistening in her eyes. “You saved me.”  


“I-”  


“And I lost you.”  


“Myka. Oh, darling.” You’re beginning to understand.  


“You were gone.”  


“Myka,” you’ve pulled her into a hug, rubbing your hand in slow circles along her back. Because you need to feel her against you, solid, warm. Leaving her. It’s inconceivable, and yet it is your greatest fear. You did not realize that she, too, shared your fear. You did not realize that she understood.  


“Please, Helena. Tell me why.”  


You do not let go. “I dream about it.” You say softly. “About leaving you. And I find that I cannot stand the thought of it, and so I do not dream.”  


“Helena,” she has pulled away to look at you.  


You give her a small, sad smile. Then you lean forward and kiss her gently, unassumingly.  


“I love you.”  


“I know,” and you do.  


“So stay with me.”  


“I can’t.” And it’s both true and false. You would give anything in the world to stay with her. To kiss her once more. To feel her heart fluttering beneath your fingers. But you mustn’t. Because whatever happened in the Warehouse that day haunts you. What did not happen haunts you. And you, of all people, know that you cannot cheat fate. Someday, what should have happened that day will come to pass. And when that day comes, you must be as far from her as possible. So, you let go, you slip out of her bed, you leave her room, and go to your own. You do not look back as you close her door. You do not see her sitting there, in the same position, watching you leave, you do not hear her sobs or kiss her tears away, and you do not allow yourself the release of crying your own. You crawl into your bed and you close your eyes and you fall asleep to her face and the sound of her voice, and you dream about losing her, because you already have.


End file.
